Rolling in the Deep
by x XRoweenaJAugustineX x
Summary: It had been loneliness which pushed them together, and the love he held for another which kept them apart. Yvonne Rosby, Jaime Lannister's lover. Jaime/OC
1. Rolling In The Deep

**Disclaimer:::: I DON'T own the wonderful song Rolling in the Deep by Adele and I DON'T own Game of thrones **

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><p><strong>Rolling in the Deep<strong>

He was playing with her, she knew. He always mocked her, even tangled in his silken sheets at they were.

Yvonne wanted to pull away—gods knew he wouldn't stop her—but her body refused to move from the warmth of his chest. His heart was so steady and strong, like the beat of a war drum, while hers sounded like the rhythm of a song at some feast, fast and hard.

Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer as known by everyone in the seven kingdoms, sighed tiredly and pulled away from his lover, Yvonne Rosby, wife of the _future_ Lord Gared Rosby. Yvonne was not surprised, it was expected that he'd pull away first, but she did feel the dull sting of rejection.

Jaime stood naked from the bed and walked to the chest where the pitcher of wine sat. The setting sun cast soft shadows over his strong, lean body.

Yvonne fallowed the muscular line of his arms to his legs, down to his feet. He was so gorgeous, so like her in many ways, but he just could not see it. His wit, his affair with his _whore_ of a sister, his views on the way of life at court...it all clouded his eyes from her, who she really was, what she felt and what she was capable of. If he knew her at all, perhaps he would not be so careless with her heart.

She watched him pour himself a cup and take a long swig of the summer wine.

Still, she felt so strongly for him. So deeply in fact that she could not bring herself to tell King Robert when she caught Jaime and Queen Cersei in a passionate kiss in the library a year ago. It had made her horribly ill, to see siblings like that, and though she loved the thought of Cersei's head on display for all to see, she could not bear the thought of Jaime's head alongside hers.

Was this love she felt for the Kingslayer? That type of devotion was something she only had for her husband, Gared, but she did not love him either.

The thought of her husband sent a jolt of fear and shame through her that quickly faded. Gared Rosby was twelve years her senior, handsome, save for his missing teeth and her husband for nearly five years. Yvonne was what, (she thought), everything a wife _had_ to be: she kept his secrets, she let him inside her every now and again, she would bring down any who ever threatened her husband's good name and she was discreet with her trysts with Jaime. Of course she had no intention whatsoever of ever letting Gared know what she was up to whenever she snuck away. She did not love Gared, but did not know how exactly she felt for the Kingslayer either.

All she knew was that Jaime both disgusted her and fascinated her. She wanted to be near him and with him, yet could not stand his touch, knowing he had also been with Cersei.

"You can't stay here tonight." Jaime said suddenly, pulling Yvonne from her thoughts and drawing her grey eyes up to him. "Well, you can" he said mockingly, as he said almost everything. "Only I won't be here and I doubt that when my squire comes in the morning that you being under my bed sheets naked would be very seemly."

Yvonne rolled her eyes and stood as well; she stepped around the large bed and leant against the post, completely nude and watching him without shame. She knew he found her beautiful; otherwise he would have never touched her. Like everyone else, she had once assumed that his lack beautiful wenches in his bed was either profound discretion or he was too proud for low bred girls and by-the-hour whores. Now, though she was not sure, with revulsion and fury, she was starting to believe it had been _faithfulness..._ for _her_, his sister.

What did that make her? The other woman? The thought made a bitter chuckle pass her lips.

"Really?" she said with a teasing smile. "Well, I think I can think of a way to make you stay, _ser_." she sauntered over to him, her hips moving so rhythmically and confidently, though her heart was beating furiously within her breast. She stopped and few feet before him, still smiling and snatched the goblet from his hand.

Yvonne turned and downed the last mouthful of wine as she walked back around the bed. She set the goblet down on the bedside table and picked up her discarded shift. Without another explanation she began to dress. He would not stop her. When Jaime said he wanted her to leave, there was no swaying him, so it was useless to try.

She hummed in annoyance to find that the bodice of her fine silk gown had been torn from Jaime. Bastard, she thought, this was silk from the _Free Cities_! Scowling, she pulled the sapphire coloured gown up her lithe body and put her arms through the long sleeves. With carefulness, she tied the broken laces back together again, never feeling the eyes on her.

Jaime walked up behind her and ran his knuckles up the long line of her back. "Lovely," his whispered, before bending down to kiss her neck. Yvonne's pink lips twitched up into a small smile. It was rare that Jaime ever showed any interest or affection toward her afterward, but when he did, she savoured it.

It felt good to be admired by a man, even if it was a lie. Her husband had a certain..._predilection_ for his own sex. He only came to her bed when his family mocked him for not getting her with child yet.

But as soon as Jaime's fingers touched the ends of her wheat coloured hair, the spell was broken and he pulled away like he always did. She hid her disappointment, years of practice serving her well.

She turned around, fastening her gold coloured belt around her midsection. Despite the relative order of her garb, her hair was still slightly tousled from Jaime's gripping hands and their constant writhing on the sheets. Her face grew warm and a jolt of pleasure shot down between her thighs as she remembered what they had been doing, not even an hour ago.

Yvonne turned around, seeing that he was already pulling up his breeches and re-lacing them, with that same smirk on his handsome face. For some odd reason never before felt, this customary action bothered her. The mundane task of the lacing of his breeches and that _smirk_...it was as if he were mocking her with a cruelty that would make her want to weep.

"My dear Lion of Lannister," she smirked sweetly at him. "My husband is going hunting on the morrow with the king and his troop...I'll be _alone_ all day." she sounded so horribly like a pathetic widow that hadn't had a man in years, but she didn't care. Her mouth spoke the words she needed to speak.

Jaime's smirk never faltered, even when the light in her eyes dimmed at seeing his lips part and a sarcastic jibe leave his lips. "I'm afraid not, lady, but Lord Rykker would be more than happy to hop between your legs." Her delicate brows narrowed in fury. Lord Rykker disgusted her, his crooked old body and liver spotted hands and that boil on his chest. Once before at the Princess Myrcella's name day feast, she had heard him whisper to his squire that he wouldn't mind giving her a child since her husband was obviously so lacking in the bedroom.

But that was not the dead center of her anger...she knew why he refused. No king around meant him and his whore had time alone. She only asked to know, to be certain.

Despite her humiliation, she kept her head high as her father had always taught her. "Well, Kingslayer, I doubt Lord Rykker's old body would be able to stay above mine very long, but then," she looked Jaime up and down once. "Perhaps it won't be so different." calling him 'Kingslayer' was a sorry attempt at coaxing a reaction from him, but she didn't care. She knew it bothered him to be mocked so when he knew he had done the realm a service by killing the madman they called king.

Jaime kept smirking at her, though she could see the twinge of annoyance and anger behind his cool eyes.

"Well, Lady Rosby, he has enough little whelps running around...maybe the old man can finally get _you_ with child." He saw her eyes glisten and her smirk fall, and felt a tug at his stomach at his statement but forced it away. While the people in the castle—the Realm—called him Kingslayer, they called her the Barren-Lady.

Yvonne was nearly thirty and married for five years and still no little lords and ladies toddling about. There were whispers that Gared Rosby's family were going to go to Robert and plead that should Gared have any future bastards, they be made legitimate. It was an embarrassing blow to have your husband's bastards be made legitimate when they were nonexistent. Jaime did not know if it were the whispers around her that bothered her or the fact that she could not have children that pained her so, but he did not care. _At least she won't get with _my_ bastard_, he thought.

Yvonne locked her jaw and pursed her lips, trying to ignore the urge to step forward and slap the smirk off his handsome face. Without thinking, Yvonne spoke words that she had sworn never to utter.

"Keep in mind Jaime, that I can destroy you...and not with our little trysts." She glared at him, feeling a lifting sense of pride at seeing the great and fearless Jaime Lannister stiffen at her threat. But at the same time, she knew she had made a mistake.

No waiting around to see what he would say or do, Yvonne gathered her skirts and walked to the door. Without caring who saw her leave his chambers, Yvonne opened the large, heavy doors and stepped out into the corridor.

As Lady Rosby walked toward her apartments, she did not notice that one of the Spider's little birds was watching her.

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><p><strong>Hi...um I'm really not sure about this, but I really really wanted to get it out there :**

**So, I might make this into a story, might just keep it like this...it really all depends...:) Also, the title may change!**

**my first Jaime story so please be gentle...Jaime was hard for me to write :(**


	2. Over the Love

**Hello! Because of the amazing reviews I've gotten, and by remembering how much I love Jaime Lannister's snarkiness, I've written...this. **

**This will a short story, not a big huge, grand plot, but I do hope you enjoy how this relationship is gonna progress :D **

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><p><strong>Over the Love<strong>

How stupid was she? Did she not think of the danger this put her in? She was mad, she must be. How could she have hinted to Jaime she knew about him and the whore of the seven kingdoms? Now that Jaime knew she knew at least _something_, he could do away with her. She was a lesser lady, not from one of those high houses—her father, Lord Mallery, was a banner man for the Baratheon's and the most influence her family had, was that her aunt tumbled with King Robert a time or two. Her death would not release many ripples into the water.

Ever since she was a girl, her father offered her to any higher born lord who would take her, but none would. She was not an attractive prospect. Although Yvonne had a fair face, her name was not large enough and her family's house was not wealthy enough—if she married into a wealthier family, she would be a weight to be carried. The finest match her father could find was between her and Gared, the heir to the Rosby castle, lands, and titles. The marriage had been for the betterment of her family, nothing more, but as all girls do, she'd hoped for a happy marriage and many children, and look how that had come about.

She grew lonely; it was only natural to want companionship, affection...intimacy. When her husband could not provide her with any, and her body could not produce children to love, it would be cruel to deny an outlet. Jaime Lannister was fascinating and exciting, a gifted swordsman and incredibly handsome, and she couldn't deny a certain thrill she got when she hurried to his chambers in secret. He was clever, and funny, and he could make her smile. Sometimes he was even tender with her after they were done between the sheets. Jaime had been what little she had for _herself_—a piece of...something _like_ happiness all of her own. But he wasn't really hers was he? Even when he was inside her, even when he found his pleasure in her arms, he'd always belonged to _her_. It's an ugly thing to live in the shadow of another woman.

Yvonne did not dare show her face about the castle for days, and always kept a pair of her husband's household guard with her. Jaime was gifted killer, but if he was to kill her for knowing his terrible shame, he would have to do it in secret.

Thankfully, she didn't have to hide for long: the royal convoy traveled North a few short weeks later, off to fetch the new Hand of the king with Jaime in tow. The castle was safe again, or as safe as it ever was. Life continued on as it always does. Yvonne endured her wretched mother-in-law's bitter snipes at her, she averted her eyes from Gared when he came home to her dishevelled and satisfied, and she socialized with the other ladies who remained at court. Nothing spectacular happened in the time between their departure and their return, and Yvonne was glad for it.

Then the royals, their courtiers, and the Starks returned to the Capitol. Yvonne knew she couldn't hide in her apartments forever—people would begin to talk. Her wretched mother-in-law would absolutely relish in the gossip about her, and would try to use it as a means to strike up a claim to end Yvonne's marriage to her son. Desperate old biddy.

Her outings were tense after the Kingslayer once again returned to prowl the castle. Her worries made her too difficult for her to be very lively, but no one really asked why. If anyone had a mother-in-law half as unpleasant as old Lady Rosby, and a son who shunned the bed of his wife, one couldn't be expected to be very sociable.

It was more than a month before she saw Jaime outside the throne room, standing pretty before dais under the Usurper. She walked alone in the halls back to her apartment after the new Hand's tourney feast. Her husband had gone some hours ago, to gamble or commit some other debauchery, and anyone who could have escorted her was too drunk to walk. Foolish of her to think he'd leave her be. She thought he may have forgotten the threat she'd spoken to him, but he was a Lannister, and a Lannister pays their debts.

Jaime grabbed her from behind, one of his arms winding tight around her middle, while his other hand clapped down over her mouth to keep in the scream of terror. Her slippered feet scraped against the stones beneath them, her legs starting to kick away her attacker, her body beginning to writhe in an effort to throw him off. She opened her mouth in an attempt to bite down on his fingers, but was met with the resistance of leather.

Before she could raise her hands to rake her nails over the man's face, he shoved her away, her back colliding with the hard stone of the wall. She cried aloud in agony. Her breath was knocked from her lungs and pain began to burn its way down her back and through her chest. Her world still spinning, a hand suddenly closed around her throat, keeping from falling in the worst way.

"Never test me," a familiar voice growled at her. Yvonne opened her eyes, and peered up at Jaime in shock, horror and fear seeping into her dark brown orbs. "I will choke the life from you without a thought." As though to prove his sincerity, he pressed her harder against the wall, his hand tightening around her neck threateningly. "I've done worse to protect my family." In his mind, he could clearly see the Stark boy's terrified face as he fell, and hear the sickening sound of his small body hitting the ground below. He shook it away. He was _spying_ on us; there was no guilt in defending his family, his children and love. He...he did what was right.

Yvonne's frightened eyes hardened in the slightest bit. If he was going to kill her, he should stop talking about it. "Let go of me." She said lowly. Jaime only glowered down at her, as if asking her to give him a reason not to strangle her. "I've known for a long time, from before we ever _were_." That meant nothing; she could easily change her mind if he or Cersei displeased her. "And the thought of your head on a spike does not appeal to me. I much rather like it when it's between my legs." She added, her voice almost coy.

"Do you honestly think I'll be visiting you ever again? If I ever do, it'll be to put a knife through your chest."

"Oh well Jaime, I'm not a feeble old man, but I suppose you can somehow manage." She spat mockingly, uncaring of the hatred burning in his eyes. Their breaths mixed in the short space between them. "If you were going to kill me, you would've done it by now. You aren't one to make conversation before killing someone." She paused. "Release me." In anger, he pulled her lithe body from the wall and pushed off her, making her stumble and almost fall. Fixing him with an ugly look, she turned and continued down the corridor, her pace furious and quick.

Jaime glared at the stone floors and struck the wall beside him with a heavy fist, wishing it was Yvonne's pretty face. Why had it been so easy to push a boy out a window, and so difficult to slip a blade between a grown woman's ribs? Because you know her, fool. You've felt her arms around you, you've seen her smile, you've been inside her, and kissed her more times than you can count. The Kingslayer grimaced. He was man enough to admit she was _something_ to him, something which made it hard to kill her, but his sister was _everything_ to him. He would kill her, one day if she ever so much as hinted at it, he would kill her. The thought gave him no joy.

Jaime did not visit Yvonne again for quite some time; it was almost half a year before she saw the inside of his chambers again, and even then, his eyes were always dark and threatening. Her words was never forgotten between them, and from then after, Jaime watched her like a lion ready to pounce.

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><p>"Why are you here with me?" she asked him once as she dressed.<p>

"These are my chambers. _You're_ here with _me_." He deadpanned as he searched for his wayward boot.

She snorted. "Honestly, now."

"Your legs are open, and your quim is wet. That's why." The kingslayer was not in any mood to answer the questions she posed gently, but then again, he never was. He never wanted Yvonne, he only wanted Cersei. Nearly every time he ended with her, he would feel the guilt claw up from inside him, which had only been briefly silenced in the woman's bed. He shouldn't have carried on with her for so long, but even a poor replica of Cersei was somehow better than an empty bed. He hid such feelings away, under his smirks and clever words.

The first time he'd had her, was after Cersei shunned him from her bed, just after Tommen was born. The last time he'd had Cersei was a few months after the boy's _conception_. He missed her, longed for her soft hands, sweet kisses and warm body. He _ached_ for her, he always had. He walked through the halls, drunk on wine and Cersei's refusal, and there he saw her. Her hair was long like Cersei's, yellow as well. From behind he could almost swear it was her, of course his eyes were made dull by the wine, but he didn't think of it. He approached her, he flattered her, made her blush with his crude language, and then he'd kissed her. That first time, she kissed him desperately, her tongue in his mouth before he could try to ease into it, her teeth nipping gently at his bottom lip. The woman was half wet for him there in the dim corridor, he was sure of it. But she kissed just as eagerly as Cersei. His sweet sister never really enjoyed gentleness—she favoured hard and fast.

Yvonne was like that most times, hungry and desperate, but sometimes she kissed him tender, slowly like a lover. Jaime didn't like it, he hated it really. It was so horribly...intimate. True, the way she would trail those soft kisses over his jaw and chin made his cock hard, but he detested the way his body reacted to this stranger woman. Cersei was who he loved, Cersei was who he wanted, Cersei was _everything_. Without her...he wasn't complete, wasn't _Jaime_. Yvonne only filled the loneliness when he could not be with the one he loved. That was all.

She laughed. "Yes I know that much." She pulled her stockings up her legs, not looking at him as he did not look at her. "But...if you...love _her_ that much, why are you here with me?" she voiced gently. As he set his shirt aright, he turned to look incredulously at his bedmate. "You know I _know_ now. I have questions." Yes she did—namely, what deformity made him want his sister?! What made him love that vile, awful, murderous woman? Is that why the crown prince was so terrible? Because his father is his uncle? The thought was foul, and if she was smart, she would go to King Robert at once.

Jaime sighed. "I'll not be subject to your ponderings, Yvonne. Never speak of it again, I warn you." He said in a low, threatening voice.

"What? Are you ashamed?" Yvonne pressed as she snatched up her dress.

At once Jaime whirled around to look at her, his eyes hard and burning as she'd never seen them before. "I am not ashamed." He said evenly. "I would _marry_ her in front of the world, if I could." He said it so angrily and so _honestly_, she almost wanted to weep. He could love anyone in the world like that, she thought ruefully. Why did he have to love his whoring sister as such? What had she done to deserve it?

Her face remained stony before she looked away and continued to dress. Jaime glared at her form a few moments more before continuing to dress. When she was finished, she left his chambers without a word.

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><p>Over the years between them, Jaime (in spite of himself), grew to notice a great deal of things about Yvonne Rosby. Well, this tends to happen when you share in ones bed a few times every few months. He knew she was clever and witty to the point where her mother-in-law could not abide her presence. He knew she truly did not care if her ugly husband came to her bed or not. He knew she loved olives and summer wine. He knew she loved being on top. But the one thing that stood out most was her mask of confidence.<p>

Jaime could see right through the bravado of her words and demeanour. She was just as unsure as a shy maiden—in bed and out of it—but she tried to hide it. She held it up as a shield, and he commended her for never faltering with it. Jaime never mentioned it, never used her mask against her, for what would she have to protect herself with if he took it?

But despite his knowledge of her, he was more than a bit surprised when she kissed his hand as a lord would kiss his lady's. This just before he'd gotten word Lady Stark had taken Tyrion, when things were peaceful—tense and ready to snap—but no one was killing each other so it was peace.

"Are you attempting to _woo_ me?" he asked. She still held his hand as they stood in the seemingly empty corridor. He was just off duty from being forced to listen as the King humiliated his sister with a handful of whores in his chambers. He was going to visit Cersei in hers after he'd had his supper when he passed Lady Rosby in the hall.

He wondered if she had any ulterior motives behind this odd little action. He didn't know, truly, but looking into her laughing eyes, he doubted she wanted anything more than to flirt. He didn't find it surprising. She was married off to a man who cared nothing for her, and had probably been her first and only until he came along. She was probably embracing her newly found sensual side.

The blonde only smiled, her white teeth gleaming in the setting sun. "If I were attempting to woo you, I'd give you my favor wear as I knock some poor green boys off their horses, and then make you blush as I crown you, erm, King of Love and Beauty." Jaime couldn't help but laugh. He wouldn't have her that night, Cersei was waiting, but he didn't feel as miserable as he did before. She was quite a funny little thing. Sometimes. "I only wish to...apologize." Jaime raised a brow at her. She'd never apologized, not in the years they'd known each other. "It was unkind to...ask you...what you did not wish to answer." She worded it delicately, wary of prying ears.

Jaime was puzzled. Why apologize now, after so many years of rude comments to one another? It must be because I've scared her, he thought. She's afraid I'll kill her. The thought made her sweet words nothing more than an attempt to please him, to hold onto her miserable little life a while longer.

With this now in mind, the Kingslayer hardened his face and said, "I've no idea what you're talking about, my lady." He left her there in the corridor, his new found good mood gone as quick as it had come.

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><p>Yvonne liked to think she was not as repressed as Jaime thought she was.<p>

She'd desired before, been desired and she'd had pleasure before Jaime. But she was lonely. Her husband loved little about her, besides her beautiful hair and her non judgemental eyes as he crept away to his chambers where a stable boy or a steward waited. She feared what would happen if he learned she'd taken a lover though. Would he end their marriage? Send her away? Her father would never take her back—cold old goat he was. The few other noble ladies she called friends would never take her in—what ambitious house wants to slander their name with a dishonest woman, with no income under their charge? Her husband enjoyed her silence, but that enjoyment can only be stretched so thin, and he was already displeased with her forever empty womb.

The young Lady Rosby sighed and rubbed at her aching eyes. They'd tried, _plenty_ of times, but it was hard. Her husband was not aroused by her body, not the way Jaime was. She'd tried countless ways to arouse him, some ways so degrading only whores would attempt. Usually their couplings went with her on her hands and knees with Gared behind her, his eyes closed and picturing whatever he liked that made him finish. He was gentle enough, and there would be some pleasure, but not enough to ensure a grand ending. But for all their trying, his seed never took root and their couplings grew farther and farther apart, resigning her to loneliness.

Once she'd suggested they take in an orphan boy or girl to be theirs to love. Yvonne allowed herself to relish in the thought of having a child scampering about in their apartments—even if it had not come from her, she would have loved it. Her husband waved his hand and said he'd consider it, but he never spoke of it again. Yvonne knew she'd been stupid to suggest such a thing. What man—who lay with other men or not—wanted a child not of his own, who came from the gutter and would inherit all he had?

Her heart ached when she passed a swelling woman, or watched a little one scamper about on stubby legs, but she ignored it. She hid her longing away from everyone, even Jaime. Better to let them think it did not bother her, than see her hurt and pity her. _The Barren Lady_, she thought bitterly.

Yvonne lifted the small portrait from her lap, sadness coming into her eyes as she stared at the woman. Her mother used to tell her that everything fell as it should, to always remember that there was light at the end of every abyss. She thought a lot of her mother lately, hoping to grow as strong as she had before she was taken by an illness before Yvonne and Gared were married. She missed her terribly, even after so long.

Suddenly, her grief was cut short as her husband stomped into the room. His arms were filled with the old pieces of his armour, and there was an excited smile on his face.

"What are you doing?" she asked. Gently, she placed the small portrait of her mother back on the table, standing as her lordling husband came to set his armour on the bed beside her. The armour was old; there was little shine still left in the pieces, and the paint on the breastplate had faded as the years went by. Yvonne frowned. His poor set of armour had been shut away in a box for years, gathering dust. The Hand's Tourney was long over. What was he doing setting it out?

"We're at war now, wife." He replied bluntly. "Tywin Lannister has called us in the name of the king to retrieve his dwarf from Catelyn Stark." He murmured as he wiped the sweat from his eyes. "The Kingslayer's already attacked Ned Stark outside some bawdy house." Her eyes narrowed. How could he have been so stupid?

"W-well why have you got your armour out?" she already knew why, but she didn't want to believe it. She did not love her husband, sometimes she even hated him and wished him dead. But if he died in battle, no matter how glorious he thought it would be, she would be cast out by the Rosby's and sent back to her father to be bought and sold again. She didn't want to leave her comfortable life here in the Capitol...didn't want to leave Jaime.

"Yvonne, don't act stupid." Her husband quipped with a sharp edge to his voice. He picked up his helm, testing the visor and grimaced as it squealed. "Thank the gods, I'll be under Lord Tywin. The kingslayer is a bloody idiot. Gods help the men he's leading to the riverlands."

Yvonne felt as if the breath was taken from her lungs, and suddenly, there was tears in her eyes. Luckily, her husband thought they were for him.

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><p><strong>Ok, there are some slight modifications to Yvonne. She's still about 30, but she's been married about 9 or 10 years.<strong>

**This chapter was both to explain their feelings about one another, as well as to introduce Yvonne a little more :D**

**please please please review ;) **


	3. Capsized

**holy Mother...it's been a while eh?**

**No I AM NOT DEAD. I HAVE NOT ABANDONED MY OTHER STORIES, I HAVE HIT A WALL. **

**I hope you really like this chapter! **

**I hope you leave a review to let me know what you think :D**

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><p><strong>Chapter 3: Capsized <strong>

_...we were two ships in the night, hell-bent on trying to survive...  
><em>-You+Me

For three days she never left her apartments, confining herself to her chair by her veranda and watching the lonely boats pass in the harbour and listening to the screech of the gulls outside. Maids came and went, leaving her be, thank the gods. Her horrid mother-in-law said a few pointy words but when Yvonne did not strike back with the same potent venom, the old crow gave up. Her tears still hadn't dried away in those three days, and the silk skirt of her gown was now ruined from the awful salty droplets, but the Barren Lady hardly cared. Her husband was gone to war, and her lover was gone too, it hardly mattered if one of her dresses was ruined.

She imagined Jaime most often, his gorgeous face, his annoying smirk, and barbed tongue. She thought of every kind thing he'd ever done for her, every time he'd made her laugh and smile and forget the sad parts of her life.

Stupid, she knew. The man threatened to kill her, he fucked his sister so many times she'd gotten pregnant three occasions...he didn't love her. Not how she loved him. It hurt to think she was nothing more to him than a warm bed to crawl into at night when the pinch of loneliness struck. This truth was heavier on her heart than anything else, even the abject horrors of the war to come across the land.

Jaime was the first man to ever really give her pleasure, the first to ever make her _feel_ like a woman. Others had made her feel like a girl with their chaste kisses, and condescending smiles. The idea that there ever was passion in her marriage bed was laughable. But Jaime was different. So much so, that the other half of her argued that her adoration flowed deeper than the shallow reasons of a dreamy girl. But really, who knew? First loves often blind us to the flaws within.

Her heart sank and ached sharply in guilt. Her husband was off to the same war, yet she grieved more for her lover than her husband of nearly a decade. But Gared never loved her dearly anyway, and he'd refused to allow her to take in a child and he hadn't defended her against his awful mother in nearly two years. Yet she couldn't allow herself to linger on those ugly thoughts for long. Gared, for all his failures as a husband, was still a good man. He'd really _tried_ at first when he married her; they tried to make the best of it. But there was no love between them, not the kind of love that husbands and wives have anyway. She blamed his predilection for the male sex. Maybe if he found her beautiful, he could have loved her.

True, she'd never truly cared about Gared in a way that made it particularly difficult to look him in the eye after her trysts with Jaime, but this was _life_ and _death_. Her husband could die, and the idea troubled her _less_ than the idea of Jaime succumbing.

Yvonne wondered if Cersei Lannister had wept when she heard of Jaime leaving. Somehow she thought not; the woman was so cold and arrogant she probably thought her twin would come back in mere weeks, some victory over his fat head of perfect hair and his armour all bloodied from the foes he'd cut down. Yvonne could laugh at the queen if her heart was not so heavy. All men were made the same—bone and flesh and blood—and so all men can die the same. Despite what all the Lannister's thought, they were mere mortals, _just like everyone else_.

She'd seen Jaime fight countless times since she'd lived in the Capitol, and almost every time, he'd won. But one slip, one delay a second too long, one mistake, all that he was would be snuffed out forever. Her elder brother had met such a fate many years ago, during the rebellion. Now her little brother, Mykel, was heir to their house. He was a good lad, kind and honest, and she missed him terribly some days. She was happy his lame arm would keep him home where it was safe.

As day broke over the fourth day, and just as the sun was starting rise over the sea, a maid came into the room, to find the Barren Lady still seated on her chair, still in the same dress she'd worn days before.

"Milady?" Yvonne made no noise, so timidly, the young girl continued. "M-milady Rosby has ordered a bath be drawn for you. Shall I tell her you're still not up to it?"

For a long moment, Yvonne was silent, staring out at the sea without much life in her eyes. Finally she said, "Draw the bath water, Jill." The maid did as she was bid.

As she undressed, the woman with yellow hair thought about what life would be like as an old widow without children nor grandchildren. Certainly it was not a glamorous life like that of the Old Lady Tyrell, with wealth and say at her wrinkled fingertips. Lonely most certainly; men don't really like old dusty women, but it couldn't be any worse than what she'd endured for the last decade.

If she was never able to remarry, Mykel would take her in; he loved her most out of all their siblings. She had that in common with Jaime—they both loved their little brothers with all their hearts. She wondered if Jaime knew that. She'd spoken of her little brother more than once. Had he at all listened?

Yvonne sat in the water until it grew cold and her fingers wrinkled.

"How could he do this," she murmured as she lifted her feet from the tub and rested them over the lip. The girl's fingers paused their gentle ministrations in her hair for just a second, and started again when her lady spoke again. "How could he? All we've done together? All the years between us? And he just— goes off suddenly, without so much as a goodbye—_farewell_!" Yvonne spewed, her anger finally coming out in the most reckless way. "Well if the bloody bastard ever comes back—_ooh!_—I'll have my claws in him!"

"Don't fret milady," the handmaiden ventured gently. "Your husband must be a fantastic warrior. He will come back to you." Said the maid as she poured water over her lady's newly washed hair.

Yvonne was quiet, wishing there was someone she trusted wholly in her employ to share this delicate dilemma she was in with. Alas, while Jill was a sweet girl, Yvonne knew she could never trust her fully with the knowledge she'd bedded the kingslayer. A few moments later, she replied with a quiet, "Yes he is quite the spear handler isn't he?" Hm, Jaime one kind of spear, her husband another. She smiled wryly at her silent joke.

Neither Jaime nor her husband was ever really hers, she knew. Well, she liked to think that for brief moments, she could call Jaime Lannister hers. There was a certain way her kissed her and touched her sometimes, during moments so private she hadn't shared them with anyone, not even with other ladies under the guise that those moments were with Gared.

Sometimes Jaime kissed her slow and tender and sweet. A few times, he'd held her body close while they made love, every part of them touching as they rocked together, mouths locked together, swollowig up each others moans and heavy breath. Sometimes he'd brush her hair away from her face, something so gentle she'd kissed him again to stop the sweet ache it ignited.

No one would take those tender times from her. She didn't even think Jaime knew he'd kissed her like that or had held her in the way a husband should. She held them close to her bosom, to remember when Jaime was not with her, or when he avoided her like she'd hurt him somehow. Yvonne knew he loved that whoring queen above all others. And yet he continued to invite her into his bed.

If he really loved his sister, why would he do that?

She liked to think it was because some part of him felt true affection for _her_, or perhaps it was because he was just as lonely as she. Either way, Yvonne knew something had grown between them in their time together, something built by two people who knew loneliness. She knew little about the future of their relationship—but what did it matter since he did not care enough about her to give her warning that he was leaving for war? He probably said farewell to that whoring bitch he loved so dearly, maybe he even fucked her. The image made her seethe.

How she longed to get the opportunity to tear that woman's hair out, to bruise and bloody her face until it was unrecognizable. It infuriated her that she would never have the chance.

"Get me my purple gown." She ordered tersely. Without a word, the maid obeyed.

The gown felt long and cumbersome as she paced her room. Her thoughts turned to her husband, and the totally reckless stupidity of his choice to go to war. Gared was not an athletic man; it had been years since he'd entered into a tourney. The last time he had, he had lost his father two thousand gold dragons betting on his own victory. Tournaments were not wars, though, and if Gared lost a battle, he would not thrust the Rosby house into debt, but, rather he'd leave his younger brother to lord their holdfast while she was sent home with nothing. _Bastard_, she thought. Men and their glory!

Jaime's death would not affect her position, she'd still be Lady Rosby if Jaime Lannister died; but it would maim her, make her worse off than she was before he'd ever took her. Did he know that at all? Is that why he'd left without a word to her? Did he know how deep her affections ran?

She wanted to go home, wanted her mother to weep to like a little girl, cursing the world at its unfairness.

The purple silk swished around her legs, and suddenly, she hated the silk, she hated the layers, she hated the corset. She hated it all, and began to yank and tear until she was only left in a half torn corset and a rumbled shift. The Barren Lady looked across the room and out to the balcony, watching the ocean shimmer in the afternoon sun. She breathed deep, trying to stop the oncoming sobs, but it was no good and finally her tears fell and long gasps came from her lips. When she looked down she saw what she'd done to her favourite gown and cried harder, gathering up the torn fabric in her trembling arms, to weep over on her chair again.

This had been the gown Mykel had given her, and the gown she'd worn when Jaime pulled her against him in a darkened corner of the Keep, and kissed her. He'd only kissed her—he hadn't pulled up her dress, hadn't felt at her breasts...he'd only tasted her lips.

It was now in unfixable shreds.

As she wept, she wondered if she'd ever see him again—her husband, or Jaime. She wished that she could change sexes and go after her lover, but the gods had made her a woman—a useless woman for being barren, as her mother-in-law said, but still a woman with a weak body and teats. So she'd have to wait and worry—the months would pass and the war would rage on, while she sat in the Keep, useless to help the cause in any real way.

* * *

><p>When Lord Eddard Stark died, Yvonne wanted to knock that too small crown off that idiot boy king's head. She was not a very politically savvy woman, but she knew enough to know that the northerners would come for them now. Even <em>if<em> they could crush Robb Stark's army, then the kingdom would be divided and as the Lannister's would never allow the north to regain any semblance of power, a future war was imminent.

More sons would die, more women would be raped, more children left orphans and more destruction would destroy holdfasts and legacies which took generations to build. War had already taken her elder brother from her family, and she abhorred the idea that it would take her lifeline and her lover next.

Even though Jaime was one of the reasons there even was a war going on. His monstrous son took a man's head in front of his poor daughter. She hoped Jaime regretted squirting that little fool into Cersei. Hoped he hated himself for it.

Weeks later, as Yvonne dined with her handmaiden (she'd had no one else to talk to, so she treated the girl to dinner), news came from her malicious mother in law that Jaime Lannister's army had disbanded after he was captured by Robb Stark. The woman praised the gods up and down that Gared had been under Tywin Lannister's charge, unaware or uncaring at how pale and stricken her good-daughter had become.

When Yvonne could finally take no more of the old bat's praising, she rose and ran away from the room, not wanting to hear any more about this ugly war. Old Lady Rosby sneered at her retreating back. "She's always hated Gared, always wanted him dead. She can't stand to hear that he's safe. Beastly little snake."

She knew she was a fool to cry over the kingslayer, he deserved none of her tears. He didn't even care enough to say _goodbye_ to her. He was a mean, sarcastic, arrogant, sister fucking fool and was half responsible for the malicious idiot sitting on the Iron Throne. But still, she missed him and stories of his captivity were never far from her ears. Sometimes she wondered if he ever thought of her.

Life at Court was a bloody fiasco for weeks. Joffrey liked to have poor Sansa Stark publically beaten, stripped and terrorized, rather than addressing matters pertaining to the kingdom. When he left her alone, he dealt out personal punishments to members of the Court for the stupidest of reasons. One of the fools had played too many foul notes on his flute, and so the king had all the fingers on his right hand cut off. Yvonne had felt so sorry for the poor sobbing man for losing his fingers and therefore his livelihood, that when he'd left the throne room for the maester's laboratory, she'd given him her ruby and diamond bracelet.

Yvonne had clung to her handmaiden's hand, trying not to cry out as Sansa Stark was beaten by a member of the King's Guard, his sword drawing long, bleeding streaks of red where he slapped her with it.

Jaime never would have stood for this. He'd told her once as they lay together in bed, sharing a cup of sweet Dornish wine, how he'd have to watch quietly as the Mad King humiliated his wife at Court, and listen as he raped her at night. King Robert, she admitted, had never been good to his wife before, but he'd never been cruel, at least not publically.

The queen had stopped attending these meetings after Joffrey had his new fool throw filth and rotted vegetables at the young Stark girl. What a foul mother, to never reign in her awful son.

The only one who ever tried to openly defend the poor girl, was Tyrion Lannister, the Imp. Ah, how droll, the monster the whole kingdom said he was, did not exist. There were monsters in the world, only their names were Joffrey and Cersei...and maybe Jaime.

Still, she thought of him nearly everyday, hoping he was alright, hoping he remained alive, even as a prisoner.

* * *

><p>Short months later, Renly Baratheon was assassinated, and Stannis sailed for the Red Keep. The Battle of the Blackwater, as it was named later, had been the most terrifying night of her life. Woken by the tolling of bells, Yvonne, Jill and her wretched mother in law made their way through the Keep and to where safety was assured. Terror was written in the face of every lady, child and handmaiden they passed, fear of murder and rape hanging heavy as sludge in the air.<p>

Shut up inside the Maiden's Vault with her horrid mother-in-law on one side of her, her handmaid Jill on the other, Yvonne watched on angrily as that awful bitch drunkenly terrorized Sansa Stark. Jill drowsed on her shoulder, and Yvonne wished she could sleep.

The queen was a loud drunk, uncouth and embarrassing as she talked of things a queen should never utter. She frightened the little children and depleted the older ladies' hope. Instead of graciously comforting the women who served her, Cersei the whore tortured the poor Stark girl with stories about what happens when a city is sacked. It almost seemed liked the woman _wanted_ to see Sansa in such pain, as though she would let the keep be overtaken just to see Sansa suffer, to see her innocence and goodness snuffed out. Or at least she wanted to torture the girl with the idea. She was _just_ like her son, only her wounds would last longer.

Once more, she wondered how Jaime could love such a woman.

For the most part, the women were kept ignorant, and when Lancel Lannister came with news, he and the queen spoke in hushed whispers. Yvonne, for her part, did not want to know what was happening. She was terrified and listening to every detail of the battle would only ignite her fear further. She did not even want to entertain the possibility that they would not live to see morning.

She'd seen the effect of siege only once, when she was a young girl still. It was just after Robert had been crowned, and her father had taken her, her mother and siblings to the Capitol to swear fealty. All through the streets, women cried and clutched to the torn shreds of their dresses. Countless bodies of men and women, boys and girls, lay along the streets. Those left alive had to clean the mess left behind by Tywin Lannister's men. She prayed to the gods that she, the other noble ladies and the young noble children saw the sun rise on peaceful streets come morning.

Perhaps on the third time Ser Lancel came back, nursing his wounded arm, he told the queen plainly that the battle was lost, not even attempting to whisper, stupid little twat he was. Most women were whispering among themselves but shushed as the scrawny Lannister knight relayed the grim truth to his elder cousin.

Jill held her hand, children clung to their mothers in the hopes that they could make the horror stop, and the drunken queen shoved her cousin when he refused to bring the child king back inside to hide behind his mother. Absently, Yvonne hoped Stannis put both their heads on the city gates to greet Lord Tywin when he marched on the city. But not Tommen. Prince Tommen was such a good, sweet boy. She didn't want him hurt.

When the queen and her youngest son stormed out of the chamber, the panic swelled in the room. Stannis and his soldiers were coming and no one was there to protect them. The _queen_ had even lost hope and abandoned them.

As the fearful gaggle of the women grew, a small soft voice rose up, and all eyes turned to Sansa Stark. The girl spouted off some lies about how Joffrey was gallantly fighting on the front lines, and how the men had rallied behind their brave lion. Lies, pretty lies. But they calmed the women and children none the less.

Sansa Stark was a child, a hostage and daughter of a disgraced lord, and yet she was more of a queen than Cersei had ever been. That blonde fool should know that there was more to being queen than asserting power over people with none. More than torturing others just because you could.

Yvonne's voice rose up as she and the others sang the Mother's Hymn. She thought of her own mother as she sang.

* * *

><p>When the Tyrells switched sides at the last possible moment and beat back Stannis' advances, Lady Margaery Tyrell was given to Joffrey as his bride, and poor Sansa Stark's maidenhead was released. Yvonne stood with the rest of the courtiers, watching as the pretty Tyrell girl charmed all of court and Joffrey too, with silky words of a love for him that had grown from afar.<p>

The entire world loves a good love story, and so all of court chose to believe the girl loved the beast they all knew sat upon the throne. They all hoped maybe the love of a good woman would reign in the horror under the crown.

Of course Sansa remained at court, and some of the younger girls still believed the wolf maid loved the child king and was hurt to be set aside. _How foolish the young could be_, Yvonne thought as she watched Sansa and her gaggle of handmaids at court. The girls who still had the light of naivety about them, offered condolences to the Stark girl, and went on about how devastated the girl must be to be overthrown. While Sansa agreed compliantly with the women, she seemed brighter already, the weight lifted from her shoulders.

More time passed, and Margaery grew right at home at court, twining into the very foundation of the Red Keep like she'd always been there, like the vines of the roses she wore as her sigil. Even Yvonne, an admittedly minor lady, had the opportunity to speak with the Tyrell girl face to face.

It was at some garden luncheon the Tyrell family hosted for the ladies of the Keep, nearly three months after their arrival. Yvonne thought it dull, and settled on looking out at the open Narrow Sea, the ships sailing far off in the distance reminding her of her childhood. When she was younger, she'd been fostered for a while at the small castle Sharp Point. During her endless days of boredom, she'd watched the sea, counting the days until her father sailed back and collected her.

As she confined herself to her age old pastime, Lady Margaery approached, much to her shock, and began a casual conversation about the sea. Not wanting to offend the girl, Yvonne kept on the conversation, growing to like Margaery the more they spoke. The rose of Highgarden was a lovely girl, although she dressed so boldly that many other ladies at court would assume she'd be no maid when it came time to bed the king. Yvonne herself would have rathered the girl cover up a bit more.

Yvonne did not know the queen had so many handmaidens under her thumb, and so as one handmaid observed the Lady Margaery talk with the obscure lady, and many others, she made plans to inform the queen.

Margaery needed friends at court, she knew it. She couldn't be left alone against the queen regent—should things go awry, a friend or two speaking in her defence would be grand. She'd charmed the people of King's Landing, gaining their love, and love was a powerful thing. When the people you ruled loved you, your reign over them lasted longer. The Mad King had had no friends, and look where it got him. It was plain that Cersei Lannister had no friends.

A few short weeks later, Yvonne decided to visit the gardens once more and came across a peculiar sight: Lady Sansa Stark weeping. The girl sat on a stone bench, a handmaid behind her, rubbing soothing circles on her back that proved futile.

Yvonne looked about, hoping nothing had..._happened_ to make the poor girl so inconsolable. She prayed Joffrey had left her alone, and that his mother had lost interest in her the moment her son set her aside. She knew she should go—it was not her business to ask why a higher ranking lady wept. It could put her in the queen's sights, and both Yvonne and Jaime had never wanted that. But Lady Rosby's heart pulled, and she could not stop the words coming forth.

"L-lady Stark?" she spoke. At once Sansa's head snapped up, eyes wide with fear, and she hurried to brush away the tears. The handmaid behind her glared at Yvonne like she had the right, and for a moment, the Barren Lady thought the girl would maim her and toss her body into the harbor. "I'm sorry, but, what's wrong? Shall I get someone for you?" she honestly hoped the girl didn't need anyone. She would not like playing messenger.

"Oh, n-no, Lady..." Sansa looked down at her lap, a delicate blush spreading over her face. Yvonne knew that the girl didn't know her name, but she didn't mind.

"Lady Yvonne Rosby." The older woman introduced herself. Sansa nodded, a short sniff sounding through the air. She hadn't met this lady before, but she'd seen her face a few times in the throne room. A beat of silence passed between them and Yvonne began to worry, wondering just what had her so upset. "Has someone hurt you, my lady?" _was it the king?_ She asked silently.

"Oh, no, no." The Stark girl replied gently. She stood, and Yvonne was struck by how tall the child was. She couldn't have been more than four-and-ten, and she stood as tall as Yvonne herself. "No. I-it's silly."

"Silly doesn't make someone cry." Yvonne prodded gently.

"She doesn't want to talk!" the handmaid suddenly cried, her anger making her foreign accent clearer.

"Shae!" Sansa chided.

"It's alright, I understand." Yvonne replied. Truly, she would have liked to slap the girl, but she wasn't her handmaid and Sansa was already upset.

"No, I am sorry, Lady Rosby; Shae isn't from Westeros, and she doesn't understand our customs entirely." Sansa apologized hastily. Yvonne didn't think this excused the handmaid really—how could she have ever become a handmaid if she was so mouthy? _Somehow_, Yvonne concluded with an indifferent headshake.

"Apology accepted. Would you like me to leave, Lady Sansa, or stay?" she knew this might have been an awkward thing to say, to put the girl on the spot so suddenly, but if Sansa wanted her to go, Yvonne didn't want to waste anymore time. _Sansa_, she thought, _has spent enough time saying things to keep others happy_.

"I..." no one besides Shae had ever asked her this before. It was nice, to have the power to start or end an encounter. Everyone else at court came when they wanted, stayed however long they wanted and left when they wanted. But she didn't want to be rude to this lady only trying to help. Of course lady Rosby could report whatever she said to the queen, or worse, to Joffrey. But it had been a long time since someone had asked her if she was alright, if she needed help. Perhaps company would help her forget a little while and she wouldn't say anything to displease His Grace. She spoke calmly. "Stay, if it please you, Lady Rosby."

Her handmaiden flashed the Barren Lady a dark look. Yvonne commended the girl for her loyalty to her mistress.

Yvonne walked forward, her green dress brushing over the stones. Part of Sansa was put off by the yellow of her long braided hair; it reminded her of the queen. But Lady Rosby was younger, her hair wheat coloured rather than spun gold, eyes brown rather than green, with concern and kindness shining in them. Sansa wanted badly to believe the lady was being sincere.

Yvonne motioned to sit, and Sansa followed, Shae the handmaiden standing behind them quietly. "May I ask why you're crying?"

"Oh, I-I," Sansa began shakily. She wanted to tell the older woman it was not her concern, but couldn't. She couldn't say she was upset that she'd missed the opportunity to escape this hell with Petyr Baelish because she'd been looking forward to marrying Loras Tyrell—the only true knight she'd ever seen. All those plans had burned into ash when she found out she would marry Lord Tyrion Lannister, the debauched, dishonourable, ugly Imp, uncle to the monster who'd cut her father's head off. No, she couldn't say any of that. Not to anyone, not even Shae. "I am just very upset that his grace King Joffrey has set me aside. But I have tr-traitors blood, and I-I believe Lady Margaery will make him a finer queen than I."

Yvonne's brows furrowed. "Oh," _you poor child_, she thought. Twisted and hurt so much she parroted every word the queen and her council had thrust upon her out of fear. Every single word the wolf maid had just spoken was a lie, but Yvonne made no comment. She'd once _been_ her. Once she'd given pretty lies for the sake of others, for the sake of propriety.

Eyeing the rose bushes, knowing that gardens could hide snakes, Yvonne spoke carefully. "I am sorry that...you feel the way you do." Suddenly, her mother appeared in her mind, her wise words flowing through her mouth. "But you will find that after every long void, there is a light. Small, but a light. And as you grow closer, it grows bigger." Sansa looked at the older woman incredulously. What was she talking about? Yvonne quickly retreated back, not wanting to offend the girl. "Anyway. Let us just be joyful that the _proper_ queen takes the throne." She said, the meaning hidden in her words.

Sansa fiddled with the handkerchief in her lap. Yvonne knew she better leave, the poor girl was probably uncomfortable. She took her leave then, said a kind farewell and saw Sansa and her handmaid off towards the Red Keep.

* * *

><p>A few short days later, Yvonne walked through the water gardens, looking down at the fish in the stone ponds, brushing her fingers over the lily pads.<p>

This was the most beautiful place she'd ever seen, and it was her favorite place to visit. This place had become her sanctuary, the place where it felt calm. There was no dark memory here; no corner of this open garden of ponds and fountains was ugly to Yvonne. Other ladies thought it too ugly, too improper with the frogs swimming and hopping about, snails and other creepy things scurrying about. Yvonne overlooked all that, because this garden truly was beautiful.

In each of the seven different ponds there was a different type of fish swimming in its water. Each pond had a statue of one of the Seven figures of the gods at its center, but for the one that represented the Stranger. In that pond, only frogs swam in the murky water, and there was no statue. Trees enclosed the garden, and distantly, you could hear the ocean, and feel its warm gentle breeze.

She and Gared had often strolled through these ponds, when they were just married, before they stopped trying. It had been lovely.

Although she'd never visited this garden with Jaime, she once _saw_ Jaime here. In his king's guard armor, he accompanied the Usurper King in from his hunt. She'd smiled when the king approached, but it was for Jaime he smiled for. He hadn't smiled back, but he'd taken a quick glance at her as he walked past. Like a child wanting to show off their accomplishment, Yvonne had wanted to show the water gardens off to Jaime, but knew it was impossible. She had never bothered to ask, knowing he'd say no, knowing it would cut her to hear his tactless rejection of her idea.

Still, she must have told him about the gardens once or twice, because once he'd brought her a hairpin topped with a beautiful jewelled lily pad flower. It had been an unexpected gift, and Yvonne truly didn't know _why_ he'd given it to her, and she couldn't get a straight answer from him. She still had the hairpin, but rarely wore it. Gared would have asked where it came from and she didn't have any answers that made sense. His horrid mother would have picked apart the story bit by bit until Gared knew she'd gotten it from another man.

As she sat on the ledge of the Warrior's pond, a shadow suddenly darkened her figure. At once she looked up from the fish she'd been feeding small bits of hard bread...and suddenly all the bread she'd had in her hand dropped into the water, her heart plummeting a hundred miles beneath her.

The whore queen, Cersei Lannister stood before her, her guards standing far off behind her. Confusion swirled inside her. She must be mistaken, why would the queen be standing before her? But Yvonne had never doubted her eyes before, and wasn't going to start.

The fair haired witch wore a beautiful burgundy gown, her golden hair twisted up into a regal southern style. Deep inside her, Yvonne felt a prickle of jealousy. Next to the queen, her yellow dress and her simple hairstyle seemed plain, ordinary. She wondered what Jaime would see if he saw them now.

She shoved those thoughts away from her like a poison and bowed deep to the queen out of instinct. How she would _love_ to shove the horrid woman into the pond behind her, to see all her finery and beauty melt away in the water.

"Your Grace," Yvonne said her eyes to the ground. "It is an honour. To what do I owe the pleasure?" she rose from her curtsey, lifting her brown eyes to her unknowing rivals'.

"Lady Rosby." The queen greeted her face not at all pleasant. It seemed the queen only saved silky words for those who could be her allies, or for those she had to be wary of. "You spent much time in the gardens, I am told. Far too much." Beneath the innocent observation, there was a barb, Yvonne knew it. She clenched her hands into fists, but summoned all the courtesy her mother and septa had instilled in her since the cradle.

Yvonne smiled a small smile. Cersei wanted to rip it off. "I enjoy the beauty the gods have given, Your Grace." She replied modestly.

_Beauty?_ Cersei rolled her eyes. This foul little urchin was lying, she knew it. The queen could see the magnificence of the garden, but she doubted this was why the Barren Lady came here. She was a liar, and one day, she would have her head on a spike, right next to her ugly little brother's.

"I am sure you enjoy more than the scenery." Cersei uttered darkly, her green eyes boring into Yvonne's. The younger woman's smile faded.

For a small second, Yvonne was afraid. Had this woman somehow found out about her and Jaime? What would she do to her if she had? At once, Yvonne thrust the fear back. All that Yvonne had done with Jaime Lannister had been far more decent than what Cersei had been doing with him. Cersei rightfully had no claim over her brother. And it wasn't although Jaime hadn't been a very _eager_ participant.

"What were you doing alone with Sansa Stark?" the whore queen asked in a low murmur. The question halted Yvonne's wrathful thoughts a moment. Sansa Stark? Sansa Stark—Suddenly she recalled the brief conversation with the girl a few days past, in what appeared to have been an empty garden. Yvonne wanted to roll her eyes. _Of course_ there had been a snake in the garden, she thought with derision. Quickly she provided an explanation.

"I was only trying to be friends with her, Your Gra—" Yvonne tried. Better not say the girl was weeping; especially when it was plain it had something to do with the Lannisters.

"You're a bit too _old_ for that aren't you? A woman approaching middle-age, attempting to befriend a girl of four-and-ten." Yvonne bristled a little. _I'm younger than you, you arrogant twat_.

Yvonne hoped she hid her anger. "Your Grace I was not aware that friendships needed age limits."

The queen ignored that. "And what of Margaery Tyrell? Have you decided to _befriend_ her as well?"

Margaery Tyrell? Was the woman mad? Yvonne hadn't spoken with her since the first time, at her little luncheon months ago. And if anything, Lady Margaery had tried to befriend _her_. She'd been content in watching the sea.

Yvonne opened her mouth to defend herself, but the queen cut her off, her voice as sharp as steel. "Do you think I am an idiot? You were the _only_ one to speak to _both_ of them." She hissed, venom dripping from her voice. "Who are you spying for? That little Tyrell whore? My grotesque little brother? That fool Littlefinger?" Her blunt hostility surprised Yvonne. The woman was not even attempting tact any longer. She had once thought that queens to have grace even in anger. Apparently not.

The sudden danger of the situation was not lost to the Lady Rosby. The queen thought her a spy because she'd been approached by Margaery months ago and had tried to show poor Sansa Stark some kindness. If she answered incorrectly, the mad woman before her would have the guards behind her arrest her for treason. She'd be thrown in the black cells of the Red Keep and subsequently killed at some point. She would not let herself meet that fate, not if she could help it.

And Yvonne prided herself on being a woman free from the games played at court. She observed the game, no more. As Jaime did.

Her answer was immediate, sharp and defensive. "I am _no_ spy, Your—"

"Oh shut up, you Barren slut. I'm not a fool. You're spying for _someone_." It was hard to believe that a few moments ago Yvonne had been enjoying the tranquility of the water gardens she loved so much. "Don't try to deny it, or I'll have your tongue ripped out." Yvonne shut her mouth. How would she defend herself should this little cunt rip out her tongue? "If I ever hear of you talking to Sansa Stark or Margaery Tyrell again, I'll give you to the King's Guard, naked in the barracks." She let the terrible thought remain between them a moment, her threatening smile sealing the conversation like an iron lock. Yvonne stared back, a spark of horror in her eyes that made Cersei happy.

Then the queen smiled, as though donning a mask to hide the hideous witch beneath. "Good day Lady Rosby." She turned to go, her beautiful skirt swishing behind her.

Heart pounding in her breast, Yvonne let out a harsh breath, her sharp tongue lashing out before she could stop herself. She called out to the queen, not moving from her spot beside the Warrior's pond, staring intently at the stones where the horrid woman had just stood.

Yvonne's voice was calm and factual as she spoke, no tremor in her voice betraying the fear and rage within her. "Your Grace, I know the King's Guard do not have barracks. They've their own private quarters."

* * *

><p>holy wow!<p>

:D :D :D

so what do you think? i know, I know, no Jaime...I hate it too :(


	4. New Starts

**Hello! I'm surprised I am updating this so soon! Thought it was a 1 time a year kinda thing lol**

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><p><strong>Chapter 4: New Starts<strong>

It took all of a night after her liaison with the wretched queen to decide what to do.

Yvonne packed a bag with some clothes, a satchel of her jewels, and her mother's portrait. She took up the old riding dress hidden in the back of her wardrobe, a once golden yellow thing with long sleeves, a high collar, and black swirling embroidery on the hips and wrists. But it had been a long time since she'd ridden, and the yellow had tinged grey and the embroidery had loose thread hanging off. She hadn't ridden in years, never having liked the soreness that came after.

But she didn't want to be raped by the debauched White Cloaks, and didn't want to be thrown into the dark pits of the Black Cells, left to rot.

After speaking so carelessly to the wicked queen, she didn't trust that her safety would be preserved as a member of the queen's court. Or Joffrey's court, whatever.

Not even trusting her handmaiden Jill with this delicate information of her impending escape, Yvonne Rosby took a jeweled ring and an old bracelet from her hag of a good-mother's vanity table, and gave one to a crooked old stable hand in exchange for readying her horse. It was such a small bit of jewelry, she doubted the old crone would notice straight away, and by then, the man would have sold it, and she would be gone. And when or _if_ she saw the frigid old battleaxe again before one of them died, she would proudly tell the woman _exactly_ what had happened to her jewelry. She would, for once, be honest with the cranky wasp.

The rickety old man had been true to his promise, and when she shadowed her way to the stables early the next morning, the black gelding he told her was swiftest, was fed, watered and saddled.

By the time sunlight had started to touch the highest towers of the Red Keep, Yvonne was passing through the gate, out into the world for the first time in what felt like an age.

Although she hadn't ridden in so long, there was a marvelous sense of liberation leaving what had been her home for over ten years. Out on the road, alone, it felt rapturous. She didn't have to twist her words into lies or insinuate her true meaning or pretend. She didn't have to bite her tongue as old Lady Rosby went on about all her failures, she didn't have to watch Joffrey torment and mutilate and degrade. She didn't have to look at the wretched Cersei Lannister and stew in jealousy and hatred. She could leave it behind in the city.

It was a day's ride to Rosby, the little castle erected in the middle of the plains, a brief ride away from the sea. Thank the gods for that, because she didn't much like the idea of camping out on the side of the road without any means of protection. The road she traveled now was scarce of traffic, for which she was grateful. Yvonne was sure questioning travelers would bring questions she did not wish to answer and suspicion which could hurt her.

She wondered what the queen would do—what her hag of a mother-in-law would do—when they learned she had run away. What she feared most was the queen sending guards after her and dragging her back to the Capitol, where the bitch would use her fleeing as a means to accuse her of treachery. But that seemed a bit doubtful as she was a lower lady whose name was often times forgotten.

No, what seemed more likely was Old Lady Rosby riding out here _herself_ and attempting to drag her back to King's Landing by her hair.

The fields were long and endless as the sea, short green shards of grass with some wildflowers colouring the green which the girl in her wanted to run and pick, to horde their beauty all to herself. There was an odd tree lining the boarder of the road, which gave her shade from the hot sun when she stopped the horse to rest.

With a thrilled start, she realized this was the bravest thing she'd _ever_ done on her own. Never had she traveled by herself, without even a chaperone to accompany her. Never had she been the master of her own fate, been the one to choose what she did next. All her life she'd been the pawn men used to their advantage, with them picking the path which was "right" for her.

But had any of _their_ choices been right for her? Her father had told her to marry Garred, and so she had, and became the wife of a moderately wealthy man with his own castle, but never had any possibility for romantic or passionate love. Or any children. Had that been right? Well without it, she would never have met Jaime, but would Jaime have even mattered if she had married a different man? Would another man have let her take in a child when it was clear she could not give him any? Would she have loved her husband?

Shaking her head, Yvonne cast the thought away. It mattered not and would not do to linger on things that never were. It would only make her sad, and besides, it wasn't as if her life was devoid of any sort of contentedness. Her mother said everything happened for a reason, that every bump along the road steered the traveler to their appropriate destination.

Her mother had a heart full of kindness, and had always been able to make the worst thing seem bearable with a few soft words.

_This_ was the path she chose for herself, and whether it brought joy or misery, it would still have been her choice, and no one could take that away. There was beauty in freedom, something light and tranquil when you had all the world at your feet, choice at your fingertips. Of course there was a limit to what she could do, but this limit seemed only as tall as the sky at the moment.

When she was with Jaime, he had been a freedom, quiet and secret though it was. But there was always a foreseeable limit—coming when it was time to part or when she remembered the slut who occupied his heart. But he'd been her comfort, a way to be herself without any real consequences. He made her happy, and she wished to see him again...someday.

It was nearing night when she finally arrived at the castle. She hadn't seen it in nearly ten years, but nothing had changed much apart from the fact that one of the towers' roofs had caved in; one side of the structure had been claimed by vines, and the proud coat-of–arms that was once displayed over the Gatehouse was missing. Yvonne narrowed her brows, wondering if it was this fool begotten war, or if the stewards who kept the Rosby seat had lost their pride.

Riding closer, the Barren Lady found the castle's condition was even sorrier. The stones were dingy, a few actually _missing_ on the outer wall. Behind the portcullis, the main gates were poorly repaired, and the shrubbery had begun to reclaim about the base of the castle.

"Who comes to the seat of Rosby!?" a masculine voice called out from above her. Yvonne looked up, seeing a helm covered head poking between the battlements.

"Lady Yvonne Rosby, and I am glad I did! If my husband was to see this, he would throw the steward responsible into the wild!" she called back brazenly.

"Lady Rosby? Lady Rosby resides in King's Landing!" the same voice answered. Still looking up, she spied a few other heads poke between the battlements out of curiosity.

"Not any longer." She replied. "Now open the portcullis to me before I start to agree with my husband's disciplinary customs."

"How are we t'know you are not a Stark spy?!" a different voice called out. "Why would Lady Ros'by just suddenly 'rrive from the Capitol?" a low murmur of agreement accompanied him.

Yvonne rolled her eyes. "Would a spy have with her, the ring the former Lord Rosby gave his lady wife?" she called out. "The only way I was to get this would be if I had gotten it from the horrid woman myself!" she pulled off her glove, revealing the unique ring she'd stolen from her good-mother's vanity. It was an impressive ring, if she said so herself. It was silver, without a jewel set in it, but as the band ran around the finger, the face of the ring became broad and flat and long, spanning between the first and second knuckle of a finger. On the face there was a beautiful design which made the absence of stones acceptable.

Garred's father had given this to his wife many years ago, when Garred had still been a boy. Old Lady Rosby had worn it until her gout began to swell her joints.

"Where is your escort!?" another voice called out to her. Beneath her, her gelding started shifting impatiently.

"Gone to war! It was a day's ride any child could make!"

"It isn't proper!"

Tilting her head, she huffed, "Are you my septa, here to teach me a lady's courtesy!?" she heard a bark of laughter that was quickly stifled, and a grumbled reply of "no."

"Now please, let me in. The night grows dark and cold!" after a moment, someone shouted for the portcullis to be raised, and the time-worn gates were opened. The reigning captain of the guard inspected the ring; he vouched for her claim and allowed her in.

"Bring my belongings up to my lord husband's old chambers. And find me the steward he placed in charge." She ordered. Stepping foot into the nearly deserted castle, Yvonne remembered back when she had been a green girl—barely twenty—setting foot into the castle and thinking, _Yes, this is my new home. A new start._

It was a new start again, and she would see to it that the castle was brought back into pristine condition. Maybe if her mother-in-law came after her and found the castle beautiful and thriving once more, she would hold off drawing and quartering her.

* * *

><p>Her arrival was met with a good bit of apprehension on the part of every servant in the castle. They'd grown used to and loyal to the steward who ruled him—Tallholm, his name was. Knowing it would not earn her much love or loyalty sending the man off with his last pay of coins for his "service", Yvonne kept him on a few weeks.<p>

Despite his detestable care of the castle, the portly bald man had kept up with the books, tallying and recording all repairs to be made and all things ordered for the stores. He'd let go much of the staff, stating there was no need for so many servants working for a castle with so few occupants. She sent him to find builders and stone masons straight off, to repair what needed repairing inside and outside the castle.

Next, she sent a few able bodied young men to work with axes and knives to cut away the vines from the walls. They'd fled the war with their families, and knowing this, Yvonne was more than happy to shelter them, especially since the castle had gone empty, with its occupants either driven off or repelled by its sorry state. But the castle couldn't be downtrodden any longer.

It took over a week for Tallholm to return with a few spared builders and masons, and a couple of months for any noticeable improvement to be done on the castle. Once the repair for the front gates was underway, Tallholm was sent off with his last pay of three gold dragons for his service.

Yvonne left the tower with the smashed roof alone, thinking it would be unnecessary funds to fix it. They had to preserve funds for foods, especially now that winter was coming. It was a stretch, but they could survive here, they could withstand the winter with enough supplies. The Capitol was where all the small folk would go for refuge when the snows finally came. There would be little space and little enough rations for everyone there, and she knew disease was likely to spread like wildfire in such close quarters. They'd die quicker there.

With the vines cut away in exchange for shelter, and repairs to the wall structure, gates and piping underway, she sent a few stewards to King's Landing for foodstuff, after hearing advisement that sending them to the closest town of Duskendale was not an option. She loathed to see them go, pride wanting them to stay, as she wanted them to survive without the Capitol's aid.

The seat of Rosby itself was known for providing grain to the castle itself, nearby towns and, to a lesser extent, the Capitol. But much of the crop had failed this last harvest—this was partially why she'd reduced Tallholm's pay. He was, by law, meant to be given five dragons, but she deducted for loss of harvest, and how he let the castle fall into desolation.

Fortunately for her, nothing came from King's Landing but angry ravens from the elder Lady Rosby, demanding that she come back and promising that Garred would hear of all her embarrassments when he returned. She never made mention of the bracelet or the ring she'd stolen, and counted herself lucky for that. If the woman noticed—gods, she'd drive herself into the grave for the hysterics she'd drive herself to.

Late in the afternoon, a fortnight after sending Tallholm off, Yvonne was talking with one of the lads who'd helped cut down the vines about whether or not it would be a fine idea to cut down the little shrubs clustering about the castle walls.

"It's not much good for firewood, but maybe good 'nuff for kindling." He said.

"Should we leave it to grow, do you think, or cut it down soon?" she asked.

"Well, m'lady, I think we ought to cut it now, before winter hits—"

"My lady! Riders approach!" one of the men atop the battlements called. Her head jerked towards in his direction, stepping away from the younger man as she looked up at the guard.

"Banners?" she inquired urgently. Inside her sleeves, her hands quaked. Had the queen chosen to come after her in the end?

"None, my lady." Yvonne clenched her teeth, and hurried towards the stone steps that led up into the battlements. She rushed around the walkway to where the guard had called out for her, and when she finally stood beside him, she spied an approaching party on the road coming from the north. So they had not come from King's Landing, but from the north. Who were these men? Deserters? Disbanded soldiers of the north or south? Villagers? _Something_ had them riding hard towards them, and she feared to know what.

"Make sure the gate is securely barred. If we can't fight them off, we will stand firm within our walls." She told the captain. His mouth thinned, but he gave a short nod.

Theirs was a small group, less than ten she guessed from this distance. And they had no flags and their horses did not sport colours in the dimming light. In the distance, she couldn't see much of their features, but for their darkened clothing. She stepped back as their rode closer, hidden behind the battlements and her guard captain.

"Who goes there!?" he called out to those down below.

"We're loyal to House Lannister!" a man's shaky rattle replied. "Please, let us in!"

"Where are your banners!?"

"We have none!" another voice replied.

"_Treachery!_ You will not come in." The captain called.

"We have a man with us! _He needs help!"_ a softer, more eloquent voiced called up. A high born? Yvonne's brow twitched. An injured man?

The Barren Lady stepped forward again, and although it might have made them look weak to see a lady in the battlements, it was lost to her at the moment. Yvonne peered down, and found six darkly clothed men, all mounted, although she saw that one horse carried two. The one who sat in front was lolled back against the rider behind him, his dark mange of matted hair plastered to his dirty face. Something large hung against his chest, but she couldn't tell what.

"Lady, get back." The captain growled, pressing her behind him with a firm hand. If those down below saw her, they could correctly assume that they were without their lord.

"Don't put your hands on me." She hissed back as she returned to her viewing point.

"Listen to me, woman: you may be our lady, but I am in charge here." He growled from behind her. Yvonne glared into the darkness, not looking back at the horrible sod, but vowing to have his knuckles lashed for daring to touch her.

Her annoyance was pushed back as one of the other guards called out, "We have no maester. Find somewhere else, we have nothing to offer!"

"_We do_, only we have no supplies to assist him." The first shaky voice called up again. _"Please_! It is Jaime of the House Lannister in need! His father will pay handsomely if he is returned to him alive!"

All at once, her anger at her own captain was pushed aside, her conversation with the young man moments ago was forgotten and the current predicament of these befouled strangers knocking at her gate was a small thing compared to what they'd just claimed. Her first instinct was to turn away, to order the others to ignore their pleas because anyone who claimed such an impossible thing was only lying to gain entry and do gods knew what.

But her sudden curiosity stifled her initial impulse, and shocked her to silence.

Yvonne did not move for a moment or two as the men beside her muttered among themselves. Jaime was Robb Stark's captive, somewhere up north. He couldn't be here, knocking at her door, asking to be let in. _He couldn't be_. Jaime was bright and golden, and all the men down there were dark and dirty and wretched looking. It wasn't him. It couldn't possibly be.

Quietly, the men beside her exchanged looks before their lust for gold was agreed upon. Damned be the risks and the dismayed looking lady who stood with them.

"Raise the portcullis! Open the gate!" the captain bellowed, raising Yvonne's far off eyes at once.

Whirling around, she grabbed blindly at the captain, and squeezed his arm hard enough to get him to look at her. "_No_. You can't do this. I gave you _no_ leave to do so." She hissed to him, her eyes bright and furious. The elder man glared defiantly at her, perhaps daring her to make him stop, before brushing off her hand and walking away in long, confident strides.

_Oh_, she would do worse than bloody his knuckles.

She stood alone on the battlements as the few guards swarmed about the yard below, simultaneously hauling the rigging to raise the portcullis and pulling open the large oak doors. A horse immediately rode in, followed by two more, then one and finally the last. Each rider quickly dismounted, their words muffled from across the yard to her ears, but she was not listening anyway. Her eyes were trained solely on the horse that bore two riders, who had not yet slid from the saddle.

From here, she there was little else she could discern from the two, but she regarded them carefully. If this was a ruse—which is probably was—she would watch from the safety of the battlements as the quarrel played out.

"This is him. Help him, please." One of the strangers said. They crowded around the two manned horse, talking in low voices among themselves. In was in her mind that she should go down there, to see what happened and greet who had come, but, she thought, _I have not invited them, and so it is not I who will host them_.

One of her men pulled the limp body sitting in front of the saddle down to the ground, their limp head flopping pathetically. Long, dirty hair fell back as her men looked him over.

A long moment passed, one filled with fear and expectation on her people's side and urgency on the side of the strangers.

Finally, someone (who she distantly recognized as her captain) yelled, "It is the kingslayer! It's him! It's Jaime Lannister!"

_How do you know? _She thought indignantly. "How would you know?" someone spoke aloud.

"I used to live in the Capitol; used to see him and the other White Cloaks on patrol through the city." Although the king's guard's place was with the king, often they were sent as envoys throughout the city, to assess and report back to Robert.

"Get him inside!" the men swarmed the limp man again, and collectively moved towards the entrance of the castle. All the men who'd come in went with them, and only three of her own men remained in the yard as the others hurried away. Once the body was at the threshold of the castle, the guard who'd ordered them inside rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. "Gods, that's rotten." He groaned.

"He's a cripple now." Someone else said. Yvonne's whirling thoughts were slowly coming back to her. _Rotten?_ _Cripple? _

"The whole _hand_?" astonishment was in the captain's voice. "Gods, take my life before you take my sword hand."

A lump suddenly formed in her throat, choking her, making it difficult to speak. His hand? Infected? _Oh gods, _her stomach turned and goose pimples of disgust rose all over her body at the thought. But she wouldn't picture Jaime as the owner of that tainted hand before she saw him herself.

"Captain?!" she called out, her voice sounding strange and strangled to her ears. The few remaining men in the yard all looked to her, as though surprised she was still there. She bit the inside of her cheek and clenched her trembling hands. "See to it that _your_ guests are well looked after, and that the ailing one gets the treatment he needs."

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><p><em>Alright,<em> Yvonne thought, _so the lying, sister-fucking man is here... and, indeed crippled._

She looked down at Jaime Lannister's sleeping face, relaxed and befouled with dirt and mud, especially around the beard he now sported. His hair was no longer golden, and even though asleep, she could see more lines of age carving shallowly into his face. But what was more of a shock than anything—even surpassing the shock of him being here—was the fact that there was a _stump_ where his right hand had once been.

The maester who'd traveled with them—a slight, odd looking man with dark grey hair and missing of his maester's chain, she noted—had cleaned the wound extensively, using the castle's little supply of herbs, and a flagon of wine which had been brought to boil over fire. Even now, Yvonne thought she could still smell the faint aroma of infection in the air. It made her queasy.

She fought the urge to touch him, to run her fingers through his hair as she used to do. She didn't want to wake him and have him see her, not yet in front of this maester and the rest of his company.

"Will he live?" she asked, not taking her eyes from Jaime's sleeping face.

"I believe so, my lady." The maester replied. Something inside her relaxed. "But without your aid, he would not have survived the ride to the Capitol."

_My_ _aid?_ She thought despondently. _I didn't even want him here._

"When will he wake?" she asked quietly.

"Uh—hmm," the maester sounded like he wanted to say something, but stopped himself before he could. "I cannot say, my lady. Soon, I should hope."

She was quiet a moment longer, and Jaime's quiet breathing filled the air. "Would you leave me with him?" she asked.

This time it was not the maester who spoke, but rather one of the dirty, brawny men who'd arrived with him. "No, lady, I won't."

"I'm not going to try to kill him. I'm not a coward to kill a sleeping man, especially Tywin Lannister's favorite son. And if I even did have a mind to kill him, I wouldn't have opened my doors to you." She turned to look at the man who spoke. He looked odd to her. Men didn't wear their hair like that, although...she remembered Lord Stark and his men looking odd with their long hair brushing their shoulders like peasants. Were these men..._northern? _

Unease prickled inside her, but if the gods were good, she hid it. "If you would have it, stay outside the door, I won't even close it fully." She said in the same voice she'd used to speak to young Sansa Stark.

"Why do you want to be alone with an unconscious man so badly?" the man asked suspiciously, gripping the pommel of his sword.

"Perhaps I have _things_ to discuss with this unconscious man." She replied tersely.

"What sorts of _things?"_

"Matters I believe you would find most _tedious." _

"_God's sake_, just get out." A strange, sleep heavy voice ordered half-heartedly. At once, everyone's eyes flashed towards the table Jaime Lannister laid on, wondering he'd truly just spoken or if had been a trick. "Get out." He said again, his voice steadier as he spoke lower.

"Ser, how do you feel? I would like you to have a bit of water and try to sleep again." The maester rushed forward and grabbed a water skin. "Are you in as much pain as before? I believe the lady has provided some milk of the—"

"I said get out." Jaime grumbled, his eyes starting to twitch open. He stared up at the stones, his green eyes standing out vividly through the dirt on his face. Eyes she hadn't seen in so long. "Leave me with Lady Rosby. I owe her my gratitude."

"M'lord, I don't trust her—" the guard advised. Yvonne's mouth opened in shock and she turned to the man.

"I open my home to you and you have the gall to say such things _when I am_ _present?"_

At the same time Jaime spoke up, tilting his head towards the man who'd spoken. "Well I trust her. I know her from the Capitol, you fool. Now get out." Reluctantly, Jaime's escorts left the room, the last being the odd little maester without a chain.

Finally, they were left alone, and slowly, Yvonne dragged her eyes to his face, and was somewhat pleased to find him studying her as well.

"You look terrible." She managed to say. It was true. Perhaps a good bath would help.

"I know. But _you're_ looking exceptionally well." He replied, some of his old snark brightening his tired voice. It was relieving to hear it, but also set her teeth on edge.

"Who did this to you?" She looked down at the stump. "Who was it?"

"Are you going to avenge my poor hand?" he asked, sounding a little more alert now.

"Maybe."

"Good luck finding the little shit." He replied, his head lolling to the side. "He's probably half way north by now."

She considered that a moment. It was strange to talk to him after so long, to talk to him about something that seemed to not matter. There was so much to say, and no time to say it. It was hard to construct a sentence that could quickly explain what she felt—her hurt at him leaving so suddenly without word, her anger, her fear that he would die as Robb Stark's prisoner, her joy at him being here, alive after so long...her anger at how he could be so..._casual_ in this moment. He'd been her lover, and here he was, broken and ill.

"You're so downtrodden I almost don't want to curse you." she told him. Her fingers itched to touch him, but she refrained. Even alone together, she couldn't bring herself to do it, afraid of shattering herself and turning into a weeping mess beside him.

"Curse me? Why?" he looked back at her curiously.

Her nostrils flared. Was he _that_ thick or was he trying to push her? "You left me, in King's Landing without a word. Even my _husband_, who hasn't touched me in years, bid me farewell." He opened his mouth to speak, but she wouldn't have it. He _owed_ her a goodbye; she deserved more than nothing. "On top of being hurt and lonely, you left me at the mercy of your sister. You know she threatened to have me raped by your own brothers in arms?" this time she wanted him to reply, wanted to know if he would defend his wretched sister for her awful threat.

She was almost afraid to hear his answer, already knowing he'd say something in the wicked bitch's defense. But she _wanted_ to hear _how_ he could defend this, to pick his explanation apart and make him _see_ he couldn't love Cersei.

"Did she go through with it?" he asked. Surprise struck her in the chest, more than she'd even expected. There was something in his eyes that she hadn't seen before—something soft, tender. _Worry_, she realized with a start. Fear.

"No," she replied. "I fled the Capitol the day after." The strain in his eyes slackened.

"Clever girl." He complimented. "Why did she threaten you?"

"Apparently, I was being treacherous when Margaery Tyrell came to me at a garden party and started a conversation about sailing. And then I was _spying_ when I spoke to Sansa Stark in the same garden after catching her weeping." She explained flatly. She looked away from him, eyeing the wall across from her with far off eyes. She remembered the slash of fear that had gone through her at the queen's threat. She'd always known Cersei to be terrible, but had never thought the woman capable of cruelty to someone she never took a second glance at. But then she'd tormented Sansa during the Battle of the Blackwater with detailed descriptions of what had been to come.

She now felt she understood where Joffrey's wickedness came from. "Your sister is cruel, Jaime." She said softly.

Jaime looked at her. Despite his foggy eyes and his sleep heavy mind, he could see fear on her face. Whatever Cersei had said to her had clearly frightened her, so much so that she'd fled the city. Yvonne hadn't deserved that. He _knew_ her, knew she would never spy to trade secrets of value. She wasn't...like that. She didn't like politics. She did love the Capitol for all it's splendor, and for her to leave it meant whatever Cersei had threatened her with had made quite a large impact. Something pulled in his chest for Yvonne, and for once he didn't try to smother it.

Now he could only pray that his twin never found out about how deep his relationship with Yvonne ran. If Cersei found out, and ever got her hands on Yvonne, a quick death would have been a mercy.

Something shameful stabbed at him at picturing his beautiful wrathful sister. Something he wished he didn't understand.

The Barren Lady wanted to ask him once more _how_ he could love her, but in light of what she'd just told him whatever his answer was, would only hurt and anger her. She huffed, fighting the lump in her throat.

"I _missed you_." She admitted with a croak, still avoiding his eyes. The kingslayer looked up at her with a start. "I missed you, you arrogant, foolish man. So when you leave again, don't go riding off without a goodbye _or else_." Her threat was weak and she knew it, but he was in such a sorry state, she couldn't threaten his other hand.

"It's not like I can." He finally replied, his words implying humour, but his voice devoid of it. She looked at him finally, and his green eyes pinned her to the floor with their intensity. Truly, a small part of her felt elated for hearing his agreement.

Gods she wanted all this dirt off his face, so she could kiss him without leaving with evidence all over her lips. Alas, there was not a washcloth in sight, and she didn't know if it would be at all appropriate to kiss him.

She gave him a small smile. "Get some sleep, Jaime. I'll bring you breakfast in the morning." But what was _one little kiss?_ Slowly, Yvonne leaned down, her lips pressing to Jaime's brow in a slow, lingering kiss, as though to savor it. He tasted of salt and dirt and he was warmer than he should be, but she didn't care about that, or how her lips came away from him a little dirty.

It was the first time she'd touched him in a year.

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><p><strong>:D Sooooo.., how do ya like it?<strong>

**I was struck by inspiration like crazy, I literally wrote all this, and scenes from the next chapter in 3 days.**

**please review! **


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